


Where Knowledge Leaves Off

by gritkitty



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritkitty/pseuds/gritkitty
Summary: It had finally come to this: wallowing in his own angst bored Matt.





	Where Knowledge Leaves Off

**Author's Note:**

> Nestra made me do it. And then she beta'd. She's awesome that way. 
> 
> Warnings in the End Notes.

In his apartment, alone, Matt contemplated the tiny echoes that ricocheted between the balcony and the trusses along his ceiling. Old timbers ticked in the late afternoon sunlight angling through the living room windows. The day was gone, and for what?

For such little bruising, a few scrapes, and strained muscles, his morning-after routine of healing meditation had taken up more time than he'd planned. A follow-up of convenient food, and then a disinterested pass at checking email and a desultory scan of the local news, shouldn't have taken so long, either, but it did when he dozed off in his chair or napped restlessly on the couch. Guilt nagged him for the indulgence, which sounded a little like his father and a lot like himself. Reason asserted that three days running with no sleep and a mild beating--or two--required actual rest to recover from. That voice sounded less like logic, more like passionate annoyance, and entirely like Foggy.

Maybe reason and Foggy were onto something. Last night Matt had slunk home on auto-pilot, aching from the bruises, sick about what he couldn't prevent happening to the boy, and nauseous with hunger and exhaustion. The day was gone, but now he could stretch against the couch cushions without wincing.

The guilt didn't stop, though. It tied up him up in doubts. How could he have been so focused on new muscle in the gambling scene to miss that their leader was also a pedophile? How was it that he underestimated an older man as a fighter? He'd been trained by Stick, for God's sake. How could he have missed the boy's distress once he knew to listen for it? Even though, logically, he could have done nothing more, Matt continued to loll on the couch as he measured the _could-have-dones_ of the past few nights through his insecurities like ivory rosary beads slipped through his grandmother's fingers.

He should get up. Do something productive to atone for his inadequacies. Something physical to serve as penance. Physically he could work around the ribs, the lingering exhaustion, the listless drag of…

Matt tried to label the feeling and came up with ennui. He chuckled darkly. It had finally come to this: wallowing in his own angst bored Matt.

 _For God's sake, stop the negativity_ , Matt thought, then turned the imperative to himself into a request of the divine: _I could use a break, God. Nothing fancy, just get my brain off this fucking carousel so maybe I can be useful again_. _Amen_.

His gut rumbled because he'd eaten a microwaved burrito, and his stomach still ached with hunger because the burrito wasn't enough food to reverse the energy deficit from the past few nights. He rolled his head along the arm of his couch, facing the window to catch a staticky buzz of neon from outside. Idly he considered abusing equipment at the gym, hitting and grappling a punching bag so he could feel the pain in his bruised knuckles as the cracked old leather shoved him back.

Instead he nestled deeper into his couch and pulled his favorite throw, the heavy one, exquisitely soft, from where it was balled up under his feet. He drew it over his shins, thighs, belly, and chest to snug under his chin in a long, sensual caress that raised gooseflesh. His body offered up a pleasant alternative to inventing lonely acts of restitution on the couch or beating the shit out of a punching bag in an empty gym. But that option wasn't available.

Until maybe it was.

Vibrations from the stairwell hummed without pausing. Matt focused and heard tapping of footsteps on the stairs, a muttered, " _I swear to God this is getting old_ " over the creak of damp leather shoes and the hum of a particular man's internal grindings.

The tapping stopped on Matt's floor. He smelled traces of wet pavement, coffee, wool, printer ink, and rotgut whiskey. Another inhale brought a whiff of deodorant that masked the sweat he recognized as intimately as the voice. Matt had prayed for a distraction to show up, and there he was at the door: Foggy Nelson, knocking and cajoling.

"Matt. Maaatt! Let me in. I know you're home." The knocking paused. "Unless you're dead in a ditch. Which you aren't. Right?" Foggy's tone slumped from righteous annoyance into humorous doubt that never shook loose the bit of real fear under it. "Are you? Dead? In a ditch? Seems unlikely, considering, but." The knocking resumed. "C'mon, it's cold out here and I know for a fact you didn't dodge everything they threw at you. Matt. Matt! Just open the damn door!"

"I'm not in a ditch so stop pounding." Matt hauled the door open to Foggy's quick breath of surprise. Matt had grunted himself off the couch as soon as the footsteps in the stairwell had passed the third floor and snuck down the hall to give Foggy a scare if he could, and apparently did. But now Matt stood, upright in the door, stunned with all the bits of Hell's Kitchen that Foggy brought with him. Matt continued to process the rest of his friend: his fading cologne, the whisper of his hair, the mint gum he'd chewed that Matt tasted in the air between them.

Matt's body began to wake up. The bruises weren't so bad. Meditative healing, a shitty burrito, and a few naps on the couch had done most of the job. And Foggy, walking into Matt's apartment and snapping with indignation, had begun the usual magic.

Foggy leaned close, looking him over hard. "Well, your face doesn't need to be stitched up." He hooked a finger in the collar of Matt's tee shirt, tugged and leaned closer, peering at his chest. "Got anything else going on under there?"

"Shaddap," Matt muttered and retreated back down the hall. Foggy closed the door. "Lock it."

"As if I'd forget to lock the door."

"Ah-ah, you're forgetting the night after we won the Haddad case." Matt felt on the nape of his neck how warmth rose up in Foggy's face.

"That was once. Which is hardly an established pattern of behavior. And it's not like anyone walked in."

"What about the interns' Halloween party?"

"The what?" Foggy leaned on the kitchen island while Matt poured himself a glass of water. "Oh. Ohhhhhh. That counts? That wasn't even here."

"It was still a door that was supposed to be locked."

"Yeah, well," Foggy hedged, "I was distracted. It wasn't as if you locked it, either. And we didn't get caught."

The memory came out of nowhere. Category: doors locked to protect a private place. At the office Halloween party, years ago, the door was to protect a private moment, but neither Matt nor Foggy had remembered to lock it. Sheila from accounting hadn't seen anything explicitly incriminating, but their tousled hair and short breath and hot faces and wrinkled suits made strong evidence for what she'd missed by a minute. Half a minute. That party had been part of a memorable night for Foggy and Matt in their on-again off-again dance over the years. Which was, at the moment, on again, even if they hadn't defined what _on_ meant this time. All Matt knew was that _on_ felt different this time. Comforting but also unsettling. Matt recalled Claire chiding him, more than once, "So just how hard is it for you to accept being happy?" 

"Here." Matt poured water into a clean glass and held it out. "Your liver will thank you."

"Thanks." Foggy drank down half the water.

"Why'd you stop at Josie's if you were so worried about me being in a ditch?"

"I knew you weren't in a ditch."

Matt scoffed.

"Rob Donohue lives on the block where the assault happened. I'm pretty sure he still likes his high-stakes poker, so I figured it couldn't hurt to ask him a few questions."

"He give you anything?"

"He says he doesn't want to deal into a game with anyone he doesn't know because he'd heard rumors that the new players in town were into kids." Foggy tilted his head, likely watching for a reaction. Matt's face hid nothing because Foggy softened his voice. "Matt. You saved that boy from rape, and I'm pretty sure you saved his life, too."

"If I did so great then why's that little boy still in the hospital?"

"Because you discovered the assault _in progress_."

"Then why didn't I hear about those rumors?"

"Because no one wants anything to do with pedophiles, and it's not exactly a shock that Rob Donohue and everyone else hunkered down and clammed up. Unless you have a time machine, what happened before you got there is out of your control." Matt could hear Foggy put his glass down with force, an embellishment on his lecture. "Right now there is a mother who still has a son, and that's because of you."

"And they'd be at home right now if--"

"No. No ifs." Foggy bullied Matt away from the kitchen island, pushing when Matt didn't move quick enough. "When's the last time you ate? I'm going to order dinner, something with actual vegetables in it, and you're going to eat it. And while we're waiting for the delivery, you're going to take a shower. You smell, Matt, and it ain't your usual good kind of smell."

"There's a compliment in there somewhere."

"Who could tell through your stench? Go on, now. Shoo."

*

Foggy's assessment was on point. Matt could taste his own rank breath, so he brushed his teeth. He used the toilet and his gut stopped complaining. He opened the spigot of the shower full blast on hot until steam filled the shower stall and thickened the air of the bathroom. When he stepped under the stream, he gasped with the shock of heat on the edge of scalding. The muscles of his shoulders softened from the knots built by guilty tension and hours spent on couch cushions. Steam loosened his lungs, and he gasped with the relief. There might have been tears, but who could tell except him? He smelled the salt even as it ran down the drain.

After a long, shuddering breath he found the energy to lift his arms and wash his hair. Wash himself all over. Scrubbed his armpits and crotch and the soles of his feet again with a facecloth and more soap because, yeah. Foggy was utterly right--Matt reeked. And Matt wanted to smell nice for Foggy.

Matt dried himself as he ambled to his bed, nude. The sheets were reasonably fresh because Matt had spent his wallowing on the couch. He wrapped the towel around his hips to free his hands and snapped the top sheet and duvet a few times to straighten them.

The flow of air around his bedroom door changed as Foggy stood in the doorway.

"Do I smell better?" asked Matt. He sat on the bed, the weak warmth of winter sunlight fading on his left cheek, as the humidity began to disperse.

"I can tell from here, even. A-plus."

"You could try from close up."

Foggy shifted so he leaned in the door frame, arms crossed like a loose hug instead of a gate, one knee bent into the lean. Open and casual. Warming all over. "Oh really."

Matt clambered onto the bed fully to recline on top of his bedding. The towel blocked little of the cool air in his room from his damp skin, so it couldn't be hiding much from Foggy's view.

"That's a pretty invitation." Foggy didn't move from the doorway. Matt heard his breathing and heartbeat, both rates steady and calm. And there, a warm tang of Matt's good scotch. "You want me to clean up first?"

"No. I like the city all over you."

"Food's not here yet."

"So keep your pants on until it is," Matt argued.

Foggy shoved off the door jamb and sat on the side of the bed. He'd shed his outer clothes, kicked off his shoes, and untucked his button-up.

"Make room," ordered Foggy. He stretched out next to Matt, rolled to face him and gathered him close until their heads were on the same pillow. Foggy ran his hand up and down Matt's back and side. "Some bruises, I think. Hm. Nothing obviously broken." He hummed little scotch-scented affirmations as his hands continued the examination. "I guess no stitches needed this time. I thought it was gonna be worse."

"I'm fine."

"You always say that. Usually you're lying."

"I'll absolutely be fine if you get with the program."

"Oh yeah?" Foggy's voice dipped. "Is that what you want?"

Matt swallowed. Struggling, he finally said, "Please."

Foggy grinned. He was so close that Matt could see the topography of Foggy's expression rendered through the movement of sound and heat between them into three fiery dimensions. _Boyish_ , Matt thought. _Cute_. They were trite thoughts, easy with affection. In that moment there was nothing about Foggy that Matt didn't like.

Foggy nuzzled Matt's cheek and along his nose before he covered Matt's mouth with his own. Foggy clasped Matt's lips in little nibbles, the top, the bottom, the top again, before he licked at them, made Matt's lips slick and flooded his senses with the scotch.

"That's it, baby," Foggy said. "Let me in." He nudged his knee between Matt's thighs as his hand covered the back of Matt's neck. He angled Matt's head to his liking and swept his tongue into Matt's mouth with lush, soft strokes. The commanding pressure of Foggy's leg between Matt's and his hand on Matt's neck transmuted the soft pleasure of kissing into a flare of excitement. Intimacy muted how Matt sensed the world. For long, blissful minutes, all he could feel, smell, hear, and taste was Foggy. Until Foggy drew away.

"Mmn, hold on. The food's here."

Matt's eyes were closed, his face relaxed in his pleasure, but he hauled in enough control to listen, to smell, to feel. He found what he should: bike chain oil, Thai spices, and the sharp metallic tang of cold held in the nylon jacket of an adult woman wearing wool under her windbreaker. She listened to some man mumbling about initiative through ear buds even as she thanked Foggy for the tip.

Without Foggy, Matt was cold. The towel had come loose, so Matt pulled it free and dropped it on the floor. He swiped at the covers until he could slide under the top sheet and wind the duvet close around his shoulders. He drifted a little, more tired than he'd thought.

"Now that's cute," Foggy said. "Pig in a blanket."

Matt grunted in response.

"Sit up. Get some food into you."

They ate out of the cartons using forks from Matt's kitchen. Foggy carried on like he could, offering up weird observations about his day, dipping into their shared history, coddling Matt with trivialities to stop him from sinking into a darker mood. It was an old skill that Foggy had begun to learn when they shared a dorm room. Back then he used a similar mix of inanities and, when they were on-again, a lot more oral sex as a distraction. Now he engulfed Matt in comforts like knitting a sweater around him.

 _This is so much better_ , thought Matt. Less uncertainty and more surety on both their parts. The inequities between them had been different back then and were made greater by the secrets Matt held from Foggy for years. _No more secrets now_. Fewer blow jobs, too, but what Matt got instead--Foggy's confidence, his care that seemed simple but was not, his loyalty that apparently had no limits--filled more of his needs.

Foggy belched with deep satisfaction. "I could eat another entire order of that." He slung his fork into the box and looked at Matt's. "You done?"

Matt shoveled in the last bites and mumbled _yeah_ while still chewing.

"Uncultured swine," complained Foggy, but he took all the mess with him out into the kitchen. After a moment of water rushing and the clatter of cutlery he leaned back into the bedroom. "I'm rinsing off."

"You don't need to."

"Not your decision, Matthew. Relax, I'll only be a few minutes." He left, and then ducked back in --"Don't start without me"--and disappeared again.

 _Start what_ , Matt thought, yawning widely. He curled up under the covers, warm all over and his mind wandering. Matt tracked the domestic white noise as Foggy undressed, brushed his teeth, hissed when he stepped under the hot water and hummed a tune to himself as he washed, rinsed. A tune from a show he'd yearned about to Matt.

 _Sure, let's go to a show_ , Matt dreamed. _We'll dress nice and--_ they walk arm in arm down the street. Foggy enthuses about the tickets and _how did you score such great seats, huh? You buttering me up, Matty?_ They approach a curb, steeper than Matt senses. His leading foot finds nothing under it, like a missing step, and--

\--his leg jerked, waking him.

"Hey, sweetheart," Foggy said. His palm cupped the side of Matt's face. He sat on the side of the bed wearing Matt's bathrobe, smelling of Matt's soap and his own clean skin. Matt could hear the smile on his face. "You wanna sleep instead?"

"No. God, no." Matt struggled upright from out of the blankets and pulled Foggy close enough to kiss, and kissed him.

Foggy wound Matt up, opening to Matt's tongue and digging his fingers in Matt's hair. He angled Matt's head and slid his tongue alongside Matt's, pushing into his mouth and taking over the kiss. Taking over Matt.

"Move over," Foggy said. They maneuvered until they lay facing each other and resumed kissing, Matt under the covers to his waist, Foggy on top of them.

Then Foggy rolled onto Matt, his tongue pushing in slower, deeper, before retreating to mouth along Matt's jaw, down his neck. Foggy pressed his teeth against Matt's neck below his ear, nibbled and licked before he closed his teeth with more force and sucked. The pleasure shuddered through Matt from nape to knees.

Foggy kissed down Matt's neck and along the center of his chest, his hands smoothing over Matt's shoulders and pecs. He swiped over Matt's nipples with his thumbs, bit at his abs, and shoved the blankets down to his shins.

"Mm, yeah," Foggy muttered. He nudged Matt's cock with the tip of his nose. His breath was a caress. Matt lifted his head to get a better sense of Foggy's position from sound, heat, and air currents bouncing off Matt's cheeks and forehead. Foggy's mouth opened, another eddy of warmth, and his hand encircled the base of Matt's cock. He squeezed. "Nuh-uh. Put your head down."

"I want to watch."

"You'll get an eyeful. Or whatever. But not now. Put your head down." He waited, tightening and loosening his grip in a slow rhythm.

"Fine," Matt complained. When his head dropped back, Foggy's hot, slick mouth enveloped him almost to the root. Matt gasped and spread his legs wider. Foggy wrapped his arms around Matt's thighs to pull him in deeper. Foggy swallowed around him, and Matt scrubbed his head into his pillow.

Foggy slid half-way up Matt's cock, breaking the tight suction. The drag was good, still, but not the encompassed pleasure Matt wanted. Matt fumbled his hands into Foggy's hair, pushing, but Foggy untangled himself and took Matt's wrists one in each hand. For one fraught moment, Matt tensed, pushing against Foggy's grip, but Foggy held fast, stronger than he looked. Matt could break free, but not easily.

"Nope," Foggy said. The hold he had on Matt was more than physical. With one hand he pinned Matt's wrists tight against Matt's chest and fiddled at his own waist. Terrycloth wrapped around Matt's wrists: the belt of his bathrobe.

Matt inhaled hard.

"Good? Keep going?"

In his mind, Matt was babbling: _Keep going, keep going, for the love of_ God, _keep going_! Out loud, Matt managed one word: "Yes."

Foggy wrapped the belt around and then between Matt's wrists. With the trailing end, he hauled Matt's arms above his head. He fished between the mattress and wall until he retrieved the carabiner and strap hanging there. The tugs on Matt's arms as Foggy tied the belt to the carabiner shot twinges of excitement under his skin. Maybe Foggy would pull the other end of the strap from the foot of the bed. Dig the cuffs out. Secure Matt's ankles. But that was up to Foggy.

Matt jerked his hands to test the binding. His heels scrambled against the sheets, restless. His cock lolled, hard and wet, but untouched and cooling in the air because Foggy leaned away.

The edge of the bathrobe brushed Matt's ribs as Foggy rummaged through the nightstand drawer. He leaned back into Matt's space, a block of heat more intense where the robe hung open, and kissed him. Foggy kissed him and kissed him and each kiss delved deeper, slower, more intense. Matt's breath sawed through his nose, and when Foggy broke away, Matt raised his head to follow.

"There you are," Foggy said. "Lie still." He slid down Matt's body, robe still on but loose about him, and then he took Matt's cock in his mouth again. He gave one, long, glorious suck, hard and wet, root to tip. His firm tongue nudged along the notch under the head. Matt gaped at the ceiling and could detect nothing beyond what happened to his body. What Foggy did to his body.

Matt jolted at the cool, wet touch of a slick finger between his legs, and then relaxed into the pleasure, groaning. Foggy rubbed slow, firm circles around the rim of his hole, his touch warming until he added another finger, cool with lube. The pressure increased, not quite penetrating. Matt rolled his hips up, legs wide, and Foggy rode the movement before he pulled off Matt's cock.

"Wait," said Foggy. He pushed his fingers deep and held them still. "Wait. Hold still."

Matt squirmed to continue the delicious tendrils of pleasure. Foggy gripped Matt's inner thigh, hard, with his free hand. He bent low again and bit Matt's other thigh, his teeth firm at the tender skin.

"Uhn _nnn_!"

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you." Foggy pumped his fingers, not fast but steady, and twisted them one way and the other, opening him up.

Matt gasped and sighed, little _ahs_ and _ohs_ of pleasure dropping from his mouth in a stream of nonsense until, without a pause, Foggy thrust in deep with three fingers, and Matt groaned.

Foggy surged up to kiss Matt, his shoulder rolling, awkward as he continued to fuck into Matt with his fingers. He muttered between kisses, "Oh, God, I love you like this."

Matt loved laying all his needs into Foggy's hands, too. And then Foggy's hand withdrew. A plastic click that Matt hadn't noticed before, a tiny furl of cool near Matt's thighs as Foggy's hand moved over himself, and then the slick, hard head of Foggy's dick pressed at Matt's rim. Foggy withdrew and squirmed about, rearranging himself before hauling Matt's legs over his own thighs. Foggy pulled on Matt's hip until the fat head of his cock pressed again at Matt's hole, which gave way. Matt gasped with the sting of penetration. Foggy's erection was thick, hot, and the head of it pushed inside with a glorious burn.

"Fuuuuck." Foggy sounded as overwhelmed as Matt felt. He bowed over Matt, braced on his left hand sinking into the mattress next to Matt's chest, and panted against Matt's open mouth. He nudged a little deeper, turned his head to spit into his right hand, and stroked Matt's cock briskly. No caresses, no slow build-up. Foggy stripped it, hard. And then he shoved the rest of the way into Matt.

" _Fuck_!"

"Yeah, c'mon, that's it." Foggy's voice shook in his effort. He pulled out halfway and slammed home again, still jerking Matt's cock.

"Oh, God," Matt gritted out. "Oh, Christ, _fuck_."

Foggy laughed breathlessly. "Yessss, we've reached the blasphemy."

A punch of breathless laughter bubbled up from Matt's gut, irrepressible as a sneeze. "Foggy!"

Foggy slowed enough to say, "Don't sound so scandalized, princess. You fucking love it."

He tucked his chin down, determined, and fucked Matt hard and fast, pulling Matt's cock with a filthy twist at the head on every stroke. Matt came, a deeper punch of pleasure that seized him, eyes clenched tight. The hot splash of come striped his belly and chest.

Foggy released Matt's cock and fucked him through the trailing end, pushing out a few more dribbles. Matt twitched with aftershocks squeezing on the hard fullness inside him.

Foggy's elbow folded abruptly and he laid on Matt, panting in his ear. "You feel good, baby? Hm?"

Matt nudged at Foggy until they were kissing, slick and deep. Matt wanted to touch Foggy. He jerked at the belt around his wrists.

"Mmhnn, no," mumbled Foggy. "I'm not done, so you're not done."

He pulled out and rolled to his side so he could check the restraints. He drew a finger between Matt's wrists and the terrycloth belt, hummed his satisfaction, and left Matt tied up. He laid his arm across Matt's chest and nuzzled at Matt's neck as their harsh breathing slowed. Matt stretched under Foggy, languid as a cat in a sunbeam, mindful of the hot erection straining at his hip, but knowing he wasn't responsible. Foggy would take care of things.

The respite was brief.

"You ready for the rest, Matty?"

 _Whatever you want,_ thought Matt, though his desire to touch Foggy with his hands grew. "Yeah."

Foggy hitched himself down between Matt's legs again. Again, the click of the lube opening, and again the blunt pressure of Foggy's fingers at Matt's rim. The pressure was firm as his fingertips circled, circled. Foggy bent his fingers and dug his knuckles into Matt's taint, an unexpected direction of pleasure. Matt jerked, heart racing, then melted back into the damp sheets, consciously relaxing his thighs.

"Wider," said Foggy, and then shouldered his way closer between Matt's legs, spreading them until the stretch began to pull--not painful, but the potential was there. Time ticked by as Foggy's patiently circling fingers continued to overwhelm Matt's nervous system. The intensity of overstimulation faded as lambent pleasure pulled and relaxed the fibers coiled in the bowl of his hips, building a rhythm. The buildup was slow, but eventually Matt's cock stiffened again. The regular pressure of Foggy's fingertips deepened until they dipped inside, softening the rim. Then Foggy drove two fingers in as far as they could go.

"Ahh!"

Foggy's fingers stroked in, in, turn, out, holding nothing back. The pleasure was greater than the pain of nerves made oversensitive after coming, and it scrambled the other pathways of Matt's sensory input. Then Foggy added his ring finger and sucked Matt's cock into his mouth.

Foggy resumed a steady rhythm that pushed Matt along relentlessly. He had settled in for the long haul, patient and unyielding even when Matt thrashed, panting between pleas of _too much, it's too much_. Matt knew he wouldn't stop, not unless he heard a safeword--and Matt had never wanted to use his safeword. His cock jerked in Foggy's mouth. Nothing hurt; pleasure wracked him; the only agony was how another orgasm seemed in sight, but out of reach.

The cap to the lube flicked open again. "Four, now," Foggy muttered, "and my thumb, too, if that's what it takes."

"Wha--?"

"Shh."

Matt whined as the little finger edged in. Foggy's hand turned. Pleasure flared up the root of him, and Matt moaned and gasped. Foggy raised up enough to watch Matt writhe in the sheets, sliding off Matt's erection to let it loll, blazing hot and untouched. "Getting there, baby."

The edge of his thumb breached Matt's rim, and Matt shouted.

"Yeah, yeah, oh, yeah," Foggy chanted.

Tears ran into the sweat dripping down Matt's face and into his hair. He sobbed and shook, straining everything to reach that moment of bliss, and it was right there--

\--and Foggy withdrew. Matt shouted again, desperate.

"Trust me," said Foggy. He repositioned himself, lined himself up, and slammed home. He fucked Matt hard, without stopping. Matt pulled on the restraints, twisting, stomach muscles jumping, until, between them both, they found the angle to nail Matt where he needed--and Matt cried out wordlessly, seized with ecstasy.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Foggy shouted, thrusting in, in, in, then groaning his release.

Still gulping for air and twitching, Matt yanked on the terrycloth binding and begged, "I wanna touch you."

Foggy collapsed on Matt's chest, panting. "You--" He swallowed, his throat clicking, and then fumbled with the carabiner and terrycloth belt until Matt's arms, no longer bound at the wrists, were free. "You can do anything you want."

*

Matt surfaced from sleep, slipping from an unsettling dream too murky to recall except for a sunny courtyard made of rough stucco walls and the sound of a child, laughing, over the plangent toll of bells in the distance. He emerged fully into awareness having no idea how long he'd slept, though it felt like enough for the moment. The stillness all around him suggested he had a few hours more to look forward to, if he could avoid returning to the dream. He turned over onto his back. Foggy was on the other half of the bed looking at his phone.

"Hey," Foggy whispered. "You awake?"

"Mm-hm." Matt stretched until his spine crackled and woke up the bruises.

"You want a cuddle?"

Matt rolled close and settled his head on Foggy's shoulder as Foggy's arm snaked around him. Foggy continued scrolling through his phone one-handed. He snorted or huffed softly in response to whatever he was reading. Mostly he was quiet. Matt's thoughts drifted, anticipating more sleep, but first he squirmed, snuggling in, and threw his leg over Foggy's. He got a squeeze in return as Foggy's thumb continued to swipe the glass front of his phone, the tiniest of sounds. He was probably reading Facebook because it was his policy to never read work email in bed. He'd told Matt so one midnight, just after Fisk had been put in prison the first time and before Elektra appeared on Matt's couch. "Hey, I'll work overtime when I need to," he'd said, "but once my pants are off, it's just not professional. And it's a mood-killer, so."

That had been a sweet but brief interlude of _on-again_. Matt preferred how the current interlude felt nothing like an interlude.

Foggy would stay for breakfast, unless he had an early appointment. Maybe a little fooling around in the shower. And then the day would have its way with them: time to play catch-up with work emails and clients and Matt should check in with Claire; maybe she could give him an update on the boy--

Matt drew in a long, controlled breath, held it between clenched teeth, pushed it out again. The men directly involved in the boy's assault were bloodied and in jail, but it all felt unfinished.

"Hey." Foggy's arm tightened again. He set down his phone and completed the hug around Matt. "What happened to the serene? You're tensing up."

"Nothing. Thinking about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's easy. Naps, show up for a few hours at the office to hate on Karen's coffee. Maybe even talk to a client, who knows. Sky's the limit."

"I should talk to Donohue, see if they know more than he told you."

"What, about the assault? Matt, you got the guys."

"But if he heard rumors about some new guys in town, that sounds like more than the two in custody."

"If it isn't cards, how well do you think Rob can count?" Foggy snorted, dismissing the idea. "The bad guys are in jail, and they're going to go to prison. Well done, move on."

Objectively good advice. Subjectively impossible to take. Because there was more to do, rumors to chase, maybe another bad man out there who needed a chance to redeem himself, if only Daredevil could--forcibly--convince him of the opportunity.

Matt considered his own missed opportunities: the half minute he lost when a fire escape rail crumbled under his foot because he hadn't sensed it was rusted; the deep bruising on his ribs because he underestimated the older man; the continuous aching regret that he hadn't recognized the boy's distress sooner. The men were in jail, but was that justice enough? Mostly he obsessed, in a weary mental loop as binding as handcuffs, about his failure to prevent the assault in the first place.

"Hey. Matt. Matty. Stop it with the self-recrimination." Foggy tightened his hug, pressing Matt's face into his chest.

"Quit it." Matt struggled loose, equally amused and annoyed. He pushed himself up to sitting and tucked a pillow between his back and the wall. "I'm not recriminating myself."

"Actually, that sounds a little kinky. But seriously?" Foggy squirmed until he sat next to Matt. "Your long-suffering sighs give you away."

"It isn't finished."

Foggy said nothing for a few heartbeats. "It was a long three days."

"He shouldn't have been assaulted. I should have gotten there before they laid hands on him."

"You can't save everyone."

"I can try."

Foggy scoffed. "You've got a few more skills than the average joe, but in the scheme of things? You're one person, Matt. You can't do everything. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"But I--"

"But nothing! This isn't even about the boy," Foggy rode over Matt's protests, "because this is about control."

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it." As soon as he said them, the words felt hackneyed. Another round of an old argument.

"That's exactly what you're talking about. It's a big universe. You think you can control the weather? What about an alien invasion?"

"You're comparing apples to oranges," Matt protested. "No, not even oranges. You're comparing apples to, I don't know. Llamas."

"Llamas?"

"Llamas, kittens, tugboats, whatever! I'm not talking about weather or aliens. I should be able to control what happens down the God-damned street from me."

"Ahh, okay. So you can read minds? Are you appointing yourself as the thought police now?" Classic Foggy: concern disguised as reason. Matt still wasn't sure how to deal with it. "Are those the kind of apples you want to compare?"

"Stop talking about apples." Matt stretched his back away from the wall. He faced the foot of the bed and the windows beyond, forearms resting on his bent knees, directing his attention away from Foggy to the world outside the windows. Colder now. Traffic and people, as always, even at this late hour. The rustling of pigeon wings. A dog whining. Televisions, computers, music. People snoring, talking, arguing, laughing, fucking. Human existence.

Foggy wasn't wrong.

He squirmed to close the distance between them and leaned against Matt. Pushed with his shoulder to rock Matt a little. "You're the one who brought up apples."

"What, can't I feel bad that I failed?"

"Those nuns have a lot to answer for," Foggy grumbled, but Matt didn't rise to the bait. "Can you feel bad that people hurt each other? Sure. Can you wish that you could stop it? Most people do, and most people try. But it doesn't matter how much anyone tries: no one can stop _all_ the hurt in the world, and neither can you."

"I know that." Matt felt annoyed. Worse, he felt petulant, and hated how helplessness filled him. He cleared his throat. "That boy was only nine years old. It shouldn't have happened."

"He _is_ nine years old. And it did happen. Stop blaming yourself when people do bad things. It's like blaming yourself for a tornado, or cancer, or even a sick asshole who hurts kids."

"I'm not blaming myself. I'm talking about what I can _do_ , what _I_ can control--"

"I swear to fucking God!" Foggy yelled at the ceiling. He grabbed Matt by the shoulders and pulled until they faced each other. "When it comes to what people do, you can't control shit." He punctuated each word with a tug, and then softened his hold without letting go. "You can try to stop them if they're up to no good, and you might succeed or you might fail, but you _can't control them_. Not this douchebag, not Fisk, not the Hand, not Elektra, not anyone. They're gonna do what they they're gonna do, because that's just how people work.

"And you know what else you can't control?" Foggy's anger broke suddenly. His face heated around his eyes and nose. "You can't control that I love you. You could break my heart and I wouldn't stop. You already did, and here I am. That won't change, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Matt came over hot at Foggy's distress. He traced Foggy's eyebrow with his thumb, as lightly as he could, then to the outer corner of his eye to feel the damp eyelashes.

"I--shit. That got . . . Heavy. But the thing is, it goes both ways." Foggy's voice thickened as he continued. "I can't control you, either, and I get it, that you have to do what you do out there on the streets. I do. But it's really hard to watch you beat yourself up, Matty. You're too good at it, and you do so much damage."

For one long, awful moment, Matt wanted to beg Foggy's forgiveness and smother him in apologies, but that was an old pattern: sin, confess, penance, absolution, repeat. Where was the change? And Matt needn't ask forgiveness from Foggy, because Foggy granted forgiveness every moment of every day. Even though Matt had kept secrets from him for years. Even though it had taken Matt over a decade to surrender those secrets.

Regret swelled in Matt's chest, thickened his throat and spilled from his eyes. So did love. Terror for the responsibility he recognized they had for each other. Gratitude for how Foggy released Matt from his worst flaws. He pulled Foggy close, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Christ," he swore into Foggy's neck.

 _Sorry_ was the last thing Foggy wanted or needed to hear. He demanded no reparations or negotiations for penance, because what Foggy gave was not incremental, daily forgiveness. Foggy gave his acceptance.

For that, there was only one thing Matt could say, and he laid it gently behind the shell of Foggy's ear:

"Thank you."

*

When morning sunlight warmed the room, Foggy's plan for the day won out. Not because Matt allowed it, but because Matt knew Foggy was right. They lingered in bed until Foggy complained he was hungry. Matt insisted there would be no bowls of cereal eaten in bed, despite Foggy's argument that the sheets were filthy already.

"It takes just one drop to soak through to the mattress and the whole room smells sour," Matt rebutted as they ate at the table. "Sensitive nose wins the food-in-bed debate."

"Unlike the disaster we made of the bed last night." Foggy stirred his spoon around the bottom of the bowl. "Which was good, by the way. The fucking. Beyond good. Exceptional, actually. Top ten, easy. Maybe top three. Not quite the best; that office party really was, hoo, something," he added, blinking at a memory. "But last night is absolutely in my top three."

Matt couldn't stop the smile breaking over his face, blushing hot. "Yeah, it was. Good."

"What'd you like best? The fellatio? Or how I fingered you till you cried?"

"C'mon." Matt's face was burning.

"Considering how much sex you've had in your life, it's adorable how you can't talk about it. And by adorable, I mean grow up already. You're a sexual man, Matt. Own it."

"But I was raised by nuns?"

"Raised by wolves, you mean. Wolf nuns."

Matt snickered. "You're not wrong."

They fell into a comfortable silence, and Matt felt his face relax, his mood calm and introspective. _Raised by wolves, indeed_. Stick, the fiercest of them all. Father Lantham, spiritual provocateur. A veritable pack of Catholic nuns, with their well-earned reputation. His father, the fighter. Even Elektra had shaped the wary college kid he'd been, as well as the man he'd become. Her lessons were the most painful, forcing him to face grief and reconcile loss.

Funny, thought Matt, how most of the wolves were dead and gone now. Only the nuns remained, and though they could be as ruthless as Stick, their goals were focused on service to others. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen owed much to the fighters in his life, but his sense of duty and service had come from the nuns.

Foggy taught him, too. He taught Matt about friendship and intimacy, which had come to include honesty. More profoundly, he taught Matt the extended lesson of unconditional acceptance, which Matt suspected might be a life-long exercise. As friends? As lovers? The comfortable status quo they'd reached didn't feel static in the best of ways.

Maybe the most important concept Matt learned from Foggy was that not all lessons had to be instant and brutal. The push and pull of them involved compromises and boundaries strong enough hold them together instead of fence them apart. The idea was as terrifying as it was freeing.

"I liked when you tied my wrists," Matt said into the quiet. He sipped at his coffee gone cold to cover how much effort the statement cost him. 

"I liked that part, too, bud."

Matt cleared his throat. "I really liked it when you untied them."

 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Includes reference to --but no details of-- how Daredevil rescues a child from rape, but the child was injured during the assault.


End file.
